


Daybreak

by stripedteacups



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripedteacups/pseuds/stripedteacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sky is pink through the windows, announcing the arrival of a new morning. But he’s not ready to leave the room, not yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daybreak

Sleep never really catches up with him.

He simply lies, content and strangely relaxed. His legs are spread under the cotton sheets, feet lazily touching the edges, playing with a rebellious tag. He should wake up, but he’s stalling, has been for quite a while, and the cold draft passing now through his toes shakes him out of his reverie. Thinking, he’s always thinking.

The sky is pink through the windows, announcing the arrival of a new morning. But he’s not ready to leave the room, not yet. Life outside hasn´t propely started in the city, and today, he decides it suits him. The so-called criminal masses can wait a while longer, he has a case of his own at the moment, and gathering data is of the utmost importance. So he does the only sensible thing, which is to observe. Freckles of dust mingling with the approaching sunlight, the progressive wearing of the sole of his right shoe, the intricate map of blue veins inside the possessive arm that’s holding him in place.

He wants to reach out but forces himself not to, wishing that everything paused for a little longer. He’s not used to this stillness, not anymore. Sometimes his memories feel like mirages, snapshots of scorching sand and dried blood. But now there’s rain and cabs and fights with pin machines, along with the familiar feeling of ice-hot rush adrenaline and danger. Now everything happens, all at once, blinding him and welcoming his steady pulse and the steel purpose of his left index finger. No tremors.

Observation has become touching as he gingerly runs his fingers over the hand on his waist. He writes his name in impossibly barroque calligraphy, adding flourishes and filligree with each new passing. He feels the body next to him rouse in a slow bow of long limbs and feline grace, drawing him closer. The motion rewinds the last hours, making him shiver and melt in a haze of skin and whispers.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, tasting memories on his lips. He licks them once, trying to recapture the ghost of a kiss. His heart remembers and beats faster in response. He feels the blood thrumming through his jugular; the beat is fast, intense, full of longing. But he’s steadied by a hand in his chest until his own heart follows the one next to him, as it always does.

When he opens his eyes again, there are soft lines of light across the room and pale fingers following the sun over his skin, warming him and softening him. There's morning stubble in his left shoulder and a cruel mouth to smooth the burn. He reaches back and runs his fingers through soft curls, inviting and capturing. His reward is a baritone rumble in his ear and half-whispered promises of danger and pleasure. He turns his face, surrendering himself in a kiss before the battle even begins.

He cups the face of his enemy, grasps for leverage and relishes the feeling of being able to touch the source of his pleasure; strokes jaw muscles working beneath his hand, a ruthless tongue inside his mouth fighting from the outside. It’s almost too much, like feeling everything twice at the same time. For a moment he forgets to breathe and breaks the connection with a moan that gets swallowed by the tide. Breathing’s boring.

There are hands everywhere; he feels them on his face, his sides, his hips, his arm. There’s fingertips marking a steady, pulsating rhythm in his forearm, pressing strings that are not there, turning his flesh into music notes he cannot hear yet. Slowly, they dig into his arm muscles in slow, firm circles and small jabs. He wonders what’s been played on his skin, and he almost asks, but then there’s nibbling and kissing, lips tracing a maddening path towards his chest, his throat, his jaw. Purrs that turn into hums, into a melody that tastes him with such delicacy and intensity, that leaves him with no other choice but to let his head fall back in abandon, letting himself enjoy the chaos. 

The song continues as weight covers him, hot and predatory, dominating his senses and making him harder than he already was when all this started. Tongue and hips work a parallel rhythm over him, gradually but steadily thrusting him down into the mattress, his own erection grinding against another, too many limbs fighting for leverage. A hip roll dipping him further and he’s straining, reaching for friction. His movements are matched thrust for thrust, deliberately slowing him.

Merciless strokes across the ridges on the roof of his mouth. Every muscle and tendon in his body resonating with nervous tension. He’s losing control of the dance, and with a vicious bite, he breaks the kiss and looks up at the amused, predatory eyes above him with frustration and arousal. A knee is already making its way between his thighs, spreading them, rubbing him, making him twitch. Hands roam over his abdomen, his navel. They take their time, tracing patterns with fingers, then lips. Lower and lower, but not quite where he wants them. His throat burns with a moan at the sight of a glistening, swollen mouth joined to his skin by a thin strand of saliva that disappears in a pizzicato of lips. Goosebumps break all over him.

“Oh. Beautiful.”

“What is?”

“This golden trail of yours, John. Gorgeous. Devastating, actually.”

He closes his eyes with a sigh, feels the words vibrate over him. Overwhelmed with sensation. Nuzzles, short breaths on his skin. Over the fine blond hair. Open-mouthed, feather-soft kisses, small flicks of tongue, followed by long, wet ones. Hipbone bites that ellicit a full-body shiver. He feels his body twitching, twisting and clawing and panting like a fucking animal.

They look at each other, hot, knowing. And then it happens. With a swift movement, the gap is obscenely closed. He’s undone, engulfed by sin.

His back arches of its own volition and he fights against it, softening the dark head that bobs up and down, taking him all in, responding to him with low, lustful growls he can feel down to his testicles. Then suddenly it all stops when he’s pushed against the headboard and a warning voice orders him to simply watch. But it’s worse than before, because his hips are rocking in circles with urgency, he’s helplessly running his hands over muscles stirring and completely drenched in sweat. He pleads in tandem with wet sounds, floating in pleasure and pain until he lets go. Release, loud moans filled with expletives and one name, over and over.

He finally comes back to his senses after what it feels like ages. The bed is rudely rumpled now, and the mattress is visible from the corner closest to his right fist. He’s covered in sweat, he’s certain one of his calves is starting to cramp, and he suddenly feels old. But he doesn’t mind. Instead, he laughs. It rises at the bottom of his stomach, irresistible bubbles of laughter that have him in tears of mirth in seconds. A low chuckle and the unmistakable noise of a mobile keyboard joins him.

Life is in full motion outside, sirens and smoke and kids and suits. For once the sun manges to escape from the clutches of the clouds, which is a small victory in August. The mobile rings, and suddenly someone’s terrible end becomes a possibility. Even the curtains promise surprise and adventure behind them. Just like that, the cramp is gone.

“Yard. New case. Hungry?”

“Starving.”

They share a smile. The game is on.

**Author's Note:**

> Who doesn’t love a little morning delight? I know I do. All lazy and sexy and with the additional fictional advantage of no morning breath! I am going to sound like a posh totty saying this, but seriously: Johannes Brahms and his Violin Concerto in D Major: ahhh. That's what I was listening to when I wrote this, and what made me grab my phone at 3am to start writing it. It's a gorgeous piece, particularly the third movement, which is intense and beautiful and quite tricky to do (lots of double stops, oh my) and something I thought Sherlock would learn to play just to entertain himself. Especially if he gets to mock-play it with John’s arm. Shhh, indulge me. Listen to it.
> 
> This was originally written anonymously for the Sherlock BBC Kink Meme [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=56058468#t56058468) a few months ago, and I thought I'd post it somewhere else for giggles. Hope you enjoyed it! All the thanks to [nothingtosay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingtosay/pseuds/nothingtosay) for beta duties. <3


End file.
